Cope
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: In the beginning, he only did it to remind himself of the lives lost, directly or indirectly, because of him.


Warnings: Self-harm and mentions of child abuse

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers

Authoress Note: This is a fill for avengerkink, which asked for Steve to have unhealthy coping methods via self-harm. Also, since his parents are Irish, I thought it'd make sense to have him refer to them as he does.

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In the beginning, he only did it to remind himself of the lives lost, directly or indirectly, because of him. The first was his father. Steve had adored the man, from the little he could remember of him. Da had been big and tall, and Steve had always been little and he admired that; it gave him hope that he could be big and tall one day. Steve had also always been sickly and, while that wasn't his fault, his father never failed to let Steve know how much it cost their family to take care of him.

Da was almost always drunk when he said this and Ma used to say that Da could soak up whiskey like a sponge. He was a mean drunk.

Steve didn't understand it very well, at such a young age, but he knew that what his father was saying had to be true. And Steve did understand, his young mind catching up quickly to the harsh realities of his world, that when they had less money, Da was more likely to spend it on drink than buy Steve a new pair of shoes because the soles of his feet hurt.

They didn't have money a lot of the time. Medication was expensive. But alcohol was something you could buy cheap if you were willing to ignore Prohibition (this wasn't hard). So if Da came home too late and hit Steve because Steve was only four, but he was such a damn burden to the family, it was expected. And if he hit Ma too for giving birth to the expensive brat, well that was just Steve's fault also.

And at six years old, when Da died because his liver had turned him yellow, Steve took on silent responsibility.

The second one was related ostensibly to the first. Steve's mother worked hard, too hard to replace where one paycheck had been. Steve tried to work. He did favors for neighbors. He washed dishes. Sometimes he stole when it got too bad. But he was too weak to work in the factories like his mother. His weakness always belittled all his good intentions.

She wouldn't have taken all of those extra shifts if it weren't f or him. She wouldn't have come home, late, looking so limp and exhausted. She wouldn't have gotten so weak, she wouldn't have gotten sick and she wouldn't have died. He was sixteen when it happened and that was the first time he did it.

One slash against his wrist for Da, one for Ma, and it felt like a small weight had lifted off his shoulders. He didn't know why he did it. But he was grieving and his palm was itching and that seemed like the most appropriate thing to do.

If Bucky noticed the scars, he didn't say anything.

After the serum his tally, as he called it, rose. Only he had to dig extra hard into his skin because it took so much to hurt him and he would heal so quickly, but that was fine. As long as he could do it, he would be okay. It made him less suspicious anyway.

One for Dr. Erskine. One for Bucky (the evening Buck died was the closest Steve had ever come to truly hurting himself). And then Steve woke up after the ice, and he decided to put down one for himself, because he was a dead man walking. He mourned his whole life and the loss of everyone he had ever known, sometimes wishing that the ice had just killed him.

One for the people of New York because he knew he couldn't put down the lives of the two thousand lost on his arms.

One for Tony Stark, because Tony was under his command and he had almost failed him, had almost trapped Tony in that other universe (and even if he didn't, Tony was pretty much dead when he fell. If the Hulk hadn't worked, well, Steve would be pressing a lot harder for that one). So seven total, horizontal cuts he made across his skin to help him deal with the pressure and focus on things other than his nightmares. Those cuts helped him be stronger than that, helped remind him what he was fighting for.

It became a ritual of sorts. When he was feeling low or too much pressure, he would make those seven cuts across his skin until he felt better, until his palms stopped itching. He hadn't meant for anyone, especially not Tony, to find out. The cuts were private and as much as he loved the other man, he didn't want Tony to see them.

But one morning, Tony walked in on him in his bathroom, doing the first cut and Tony froze, looking at the little lines of blood crawling sluggishly over Steve's wrist and the razor blade in his fingers, with such a heartbroken expression.

"Steve?"

"It's nothing, Tony."

Steve looked away feeling ashamed for some reason, like something hot had dropped into his gut. But Tony was coming closer and cupped Steve's face, still with that distraught look.

"It isn't _nothing_ Steve. Are you—Do you do this often?"

Steve wasn't sure if he should answer that truthfully or not, so he just stayed silent, but that just made Tony look worse.

"Oh, _Steve_. You shouldn't—there are better ways to deal, you know? I'm probably not the person you should be talking about this though, I mean I barely stopped myself in high school, and look at me now, but fuck Steve don't do this."

Steve nodded absently, reeling a little bit from the nonchalance of Tony's confession. The other looked so sad and it twisted Steve's gut in the worst possible way, so he automatically replied,

"I'm sorry," because it was always his fault and Tony looked even more pained.

"No, don't do that. Don't apologize. Just…don't do this again. Promise me?"

Steve took a deep breath and nodded again, "I promise."

It was a lie, but what Tony didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Steve knew that the other didn't know how much he needed this to be at peace, how much it helped him. But Steve would be more careful the next time and would hide better. It would be okay.

Except one day, after the next few times he did it, he walked out into the commons room and all of the rest of the Avengers were there, waiting for him, it seemed. At first Steve thought there was some sort of emergency, but he saw the looks in their eyes and knew what this was about. He subconsciously tugged his sleeve down over his wrist, over imaginary scars, and mentally mapped out all the exits in the room.

"Steve…you promised," Tony murmured and Steve winced, having no doubt about what this would entail. He didn't deny anything and asked,

"How?"

"JARVIS. I asked him to tell me."

Steve felt briefly betrayed by the AI, but he knew realistically that he couldn't fault the other. Everyone was worried for no reason.

"I'm fine you guys, seriously."

"You are not fine, Steven," And this was proclaimed by Thor, who seemed like a much more reserved version of his more exuberant self.

"A man who is well does not purposefully harm himself."

Bruce, who was nervously fiddling with his glasses, agreed, "He's right, this is…unhealthy. There are better ways to deal with stress."

"You should talk to someone," Natasha urged softly, being the first to actually move towards him. He realized he was tensing like he was about to run and tried to force his muscles to relax. They were just trying to help him, not fight him.

"It doesn't have to be us, if you don't want it to be. SHEILD has some excellent counseling facilities. It's all extremely confidential."

"Yeah," Clint intoned with a rueful smile, "I've used them before. There's no shame in it, Cap."

"I—" He wasn't quite sure how to respond, how to say he didn't know how to deal with everything that had happened to him over the past ninety years in another way, much less admit that he needed help. His stomach felt tight and odd.

Bruce spoke again, "You don't have to decide now, Steve. You can talk whenever you're ready."

And Tony, who had been surprisingly quiet up until that point, said, "I'd listen to them, babe. What they're saying is like a thousand times better than what I could have said, but they're right. We just want you well."

Steve nodded, again not knowing what to say, nor was he sure he would be able to say it with the lump forming in his throat. He took a deep breath to calm himself when Tony embraced him in a hug. He shivered and buried his face into the crook of his lover's neck, feeling his chest tighten unbearably. He was actually crying by the time he felt the other Avengers wrap around him in solidarity.

He wasn't sure why he was crying, but it was relieving in the oddest way. His body shook and it should have been mortifying, but it was somehow okay. For the first time, Steve thought that maybe he could put his razor away for a while. Maybe, for once, he wouldn't need it.


End file.
